


Hell's Belles, Part One

by janewestin, Teragram



Series: Hell and Back [1]
Category: Psych
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 15:20:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janewestin/pseuds/janewestin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teragram/pseuds/Teragram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lassiter takes on a new responsibility, which brings him closer to Shawn. Belle in a Handbasket is the prequel to this work. Coauthored with tera_gram!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

***

**Chapter 1**

_Santa Barbara, Six Months Ago._

Lassiter blamed the fist. It was small and chubby and it gripped his index finger with a strength he didn’t expect a baby to have. His first meeting with the owner of the tiny fist happened on a rainy October 4th night when he and O’Hara had been called to a domestic disturbance. The couple creating the disturbance were highly agitated that their black market OxyContin business wasn't running as smoothly as they had hoped. They were not at all agitated by the obvious distress of their emaciated six-month-old daughter, strapped in a car seat in the bathtub.

As Lassiter carried the tiny infant to the squad car, sheltering her against the blowing rain with his jacket, he was surprised by how angry he felt. As he looked at the hospital x-rays that detailed her fractured bones he felt as if he'd tapped into a well of anger that had no bottom. It surged up, threatening to drown both her abusive parents and the pessimistic woman from child and family services. Within forty-eight hours, he was applying for a foster parent license and arranging for a home visit.

Lassiter worried about how his decision might be perceived at work. He didn't want people to think he was going soft. The truth was, however, that no one who had seen Lassiter with the tiny girl thought of him as soft. If anything, the word ‘fierce’ had come to mind. O'Hara noted how he glared from beneath his brows at anyone who came within a ten-foot radius, as if they might try to steal her away. McNab had personally heard Lassiter talking to her when he thought nobody was around.

“Who's my little princess? That's right. It's you!” Lassiter had cooed at the baby. McNab had smiled broadly, and was about to initiate conversation until Lassiter had added, “And anyone who tries to hurt my little princess gets shot in all his toes and fingers with a Glock 17 before dying slowly of a festering gut wound.” McNab had done a quick 180 and brought his reports to O'Hara instead.

***

In a way, the situation with Shawn had been the baby's fault as well. The psychic had strolled into the station one stormy evening and caught Lassiter going through a stack of resumes from potential nannies. In his glistening pea green poncho Shawn ooked like a wilted flower. As he pulled off the wet slicker and hung it on a peg, Lassiter hunched even further behind his computer screen and pretended not to see him. It was late and the bullpen was operating at minimum capacity. Maybe, without an audience, Spencer would just go home.

“Lassie, Lassie, Lassie,” Shawn slapped a wet hand heavily onto his shoulder and smiled slyly. “You wouldn't, by any chance be misusing your access to police resources, would you? “

Lassiter turned and glared at him with red-rimmed eyes. After the fourth sleepless night the morality of misusing police resources paled in comparison to the danger that a sleep deprived man with a Smith & Wesson M&P posed to the public.

“What's it to you?”

Shawn sat on the edge of his desk and loomed over him, smelling pleasantly of something light and clean. It reminded Lassiter of a freshly mowed lawn.

“Only that there's a much easier way to find someone to babysit little...what's the kid's name?”

“Charlotte. Her name is Charlotte.” Lassiter felt the muscles in his jaw tighten and his teeth ground together. Shawn mocked everything he did. Why should caring for a neglected infant be any different?

Shawn tilted his head, puzzled. “Why Charlotte? She’s my _least_ favourite character on Sex and The City. There’s still time to change it, you know. What about Samantha?  Or Miranda?” His face lit up. “Hey.  What about Shawna? Shawnelle? Shawnika? Oooh, I like that one. Say it with me…Shawnika.”

Lassiter grimaced. Somehow, giving her an identity just hadn’t been high on her birth parent’s list of priorities. Even now, the courts still considered her to be Baby Conway. But Lassiter had been calling her Charlotte for almost a week now.

“Charlotte's a family name. It's the feminine form of Charles.” He ground the words out. Somehow even giving Spencer this amount of information felt excessively forthcoming. He didn’t want to turn into one of those people who talked about their kid nonstop. Not that she was his kid, he reminded himself. Not yet, anyway.

“And it’s the name of Angelica's mom on Rugrats,” Shawn said, waving a hand as if this was common knowledge. When Lassiter continued to glare at him, Shawn continued. “Here’s the thing…some of these fly-by-night babysitting places just dope the kids up with tranquilizers, dress them as pumpkins or sunflowers and churn out calendars. You need someone reliable. The good news is I'm available to help.” He tilted his head, grinned, and held the pose, allowing Lassiter to take in the glory that was Shawn, available to help.

Lassiter smirked and turned back to his computer screen. “The Chief may be content to rely on your mumbo-jumbo to select her childcare, Spencer, but I prefer the tried and true method of a thorough background check and a session with the polygraph.” He'd already eliminated one candidate who, although leading the pack in childhood education credits and glowing references, admitted to having smoked marijuana in junior high. The last thing he wanted was to leave little Charlotte in the care of a drug addict.

He glanced at the clock on his computer screen. His mother's poker club was starting in an hour. As much as he disliked the idea of unsavory babysitters, leaving a child in his mother's care for an extended period wasn't exactly his first choice either. Every penny she saved him in childcare now would be paid out in Charlotte's counseling bills down the road.

Shawn rolled his eyes and started to play with the pens on the desk, making them dance like little legs. “I don't mean help in your search,” he said. “I mean I'm available to babysit. Although now that you mention it, I would be great at tracking down sitters. I was always the first in my class to find Waldo.”

“Waldo.” Lassiter was unimpressed.

“Yeah. He's like Harry Potter, except he dresses like a candy cane and has thinner books. But seriously, think about it. You look like you're a couple days away from hiding her in your desk drawer, whereas I have a very flexible schedule.”

“You.” Lassiter managed to pack all his doubt, distrust and revulsion into the tiny word. But despite his feelings, Spencer wasn't wrong. He didn’t know how Spencer could tell, but he _had_ actually measured several spaces in the office to see if they could accommodate a small sleeper. Just for those nights when he had to work late.

“Yes, me.” Shawn leaned back, almost lying on the desk, and ran a hand up his t-shirt. “I'm great with kids. I've worked as a teacher, and I took a pediatric first aid course from the American Heart Association. Plus I've seen every episode of Sesame Street and my cable package includes Nickelodeon.”

“Really?” Lassiter tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. First Aid training was on his list of must-haves. “You taught children?”

“No. I taught English as a foreign language in Thailand, but if I can convince thirty Thai businessmen to put on a musical production of Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, I think I can communicate with a baby. She speaks English, right?”

“A kind of English.” Despite his exhaustion Lassiter couldn't suppress a smile when he thought of how Charlotte had started to mimic talking. He looked at Shawn with narrowed eyes. “What about diapers? Changed any?”

Shawn leaned forward further, resting his chin in his hand, and looked up at him with guileless hazel eyes. Lassiter glanced away then back again, his discomfort at the intimacy fighting with his need to scrutinize Spencer for any hint of ulterior motivation.

“I worked in waste removal in New Jersey for a week and a half,” he said, “so I know all about handling toxic substances. And I learned a lot about how the witness protection program works, if that becomes relevant.”

Lassiter looked at his shrinking list of possible caregivers, and a phrase he'd heard his grandmother use came to mind: Better the devil you know than the devil you don't.

“You're hired. Temporarily.”

***

It was a bright and sunny Saturday when Gus arrived at the psych office to find Shawn with his back to the door, wiggling to No Doubt.

“Hey baby, hey baby hey,” Shawn sang in a light falsetto.

“Shawn,” Gus said, moving to his desk and trying to hide the exasperation in his voice, “I've said it before and I'll say it again. Psych is a business, and people generally expect a business to be professional. Booty poppin' is not professional.”

Shawn turned and rolled his eyes. “Psssaw! I am _totally_ professional. He did a quick dance step he'd picked up from watching Kristi Yamaguchi on Dancing With the Stars and then stood, hands on his hips, with his chin in the air. “Tell me that didn't look professional. I dare you!”

Gus froze. “Why do you have a baby strapped to your chest?” He immediately estimated the age of the baby, subtracted nine months and tried to recall who Shawn had been seeing over a year ago. “Please tell me this has nothing to do with Gina Raypack.”

“Of course not,” Shawn said, pulling a face. “Do you hear the kid baby-talking about herself in the third person?”

Gus continued to stare at him with what he liked to think of as his truth ray.

“Relax,” Shawn said, finally crumbling under the power of the ray. “It's not mine. I'm babysitting.” He smiled. “I'm a manny.”

“A manny.”

“A male nanny,” Shawn explained.

The baby looked at Gus with serious brown eyes, then put her lips together and blew, spraying spit everywhere.

“I just taught her how to do that,” Shawn said proudly. “She's obviously brilliant. I'm looking into Ivy Tech schools. I think she'd look adorable in Harvard gold.”

“I think you mean Ivy League,” Gus said. “And Harvard is crimson, not gold.”

“Whatever.” Shawn shrugged and reclined onto the couch. The baby was small, but carrying her around all day was starting to take a toll on his lower back.

Gus walked smoothly to his desk and sat, trying to look calm. When Shawn had first pushed him into this psychic detective business he'd expected it would last anywhere from six months to a year before Shawn got bored and moved on to something else. Now, seeing Shawn wearing the Snugli and a glow of enthusiasm, he wondered if Shawn's commitment to running Psych had simply been a temporary anomaly. He glanced around their office and wondered if he could find someone to sublet the space until their lease ran out next year.

“I know what a manny is,” he said, trying hard to hide his disappointment. “Why are you one all of a sudden?”

“Lassiter's gone all Different Strokes for Charlotte here and I'm his Charles In Charge.”

“Have you even considered how this new job might affect Psych?” Gus didn't bother trying to keep the resentment out of his voice. As much as Shawn might relish the excitement of constantly switching jobs, Gus had grown to enjoy Psych, and he wasn't crazy about losing his most adventurous job so that Shawn could act out his favorite scenes from Three Men and a Baby.

Shawn gaped. “You have a second job.”

“That's different. I have a job so my bills get paid and I have a respectable work history on my resume. You, on the other hand, are taking care of a kid. And kids need constant attention.”

As though to illustrate this, Charlotte began to wriggle and squeal, batting the carrier with both hands. Shawn stood and bounced a little to quiet her.

“As I said.” Gus smirked. “Constant attention.”

Shawn pouted. “You should have seen him, Gus.” He ran a hand in front of his face. “With the dark circles and the red eyes. He looked like a pot-smoking panda. Lassie needed someone.”

“Why did that someone have to be you?” Gus had a feeling there was more going on here than met the eye. It was starting to feel suspiciously like the time Shawn had suddenly professed a desire to join the grade eight boy's volleyball team in order to spend more time standing next to Walter Mayfield.

Shawn smiled. “I see what's going on. You think I'm ditching Psych.”

“Well, aren't you?” Gus crossed his arms, realized that looked defensive and settled for resting his hands on his hips.

“No. Gus, buddy, pal,” Shawn strode over and wrapped an arm around him. “Don't be the pizza burn on the roof of my mouth.” He waved a hand at the office. “This is our place. This is where we do our thing. It's our secret headquarters, Batcave, crime lab, Scooby van, all rolled into one! I wouldn't leave this.”

Gus barely dared to believe him. “So you're still doing Psych?”

“Of course!” Shawn twirled slowly, modeling the baby carrier. “Check it out. This kid is portable! And how cool will it be when we question people with a baby? I've already got this bit worked out where I pretend the baby is sensing their guilt.” He put a hand lightly on Charlotte's head, and Gus thought her expression did almost look like she was experiencing some unpleasant psychic revelation. “Kids are like dogs,” Shawn added. “They can sense evil.”

“Dogs cannot sense evil.” Gus said insistently.

Shawn waved a hand, dismissing the objection. “You're just saying that because Mrs. Wallis's Doberman used to chase you home from school.”

“It wanted to kill me and eat me.” Gus's mouth hardened as he recalled the terror of trying to outrun the 70lb monster. He'd taken to carrying all-beef wieners with him so he could fling them behind him, hoping the dog would think they were Gus’s fingers.

“It wanted to play.”

“With my shin bones, by burying them in the park.” Gus leaned back in his chair. He was still resentful about the situation. Mrs. Willis had eventually sent a letter to his parents, asking him to stop feeding her dog junk food.

“My point is,” Shawn said, “we can still do all the stuff we did before, only now we'll be doing it with a baby. It'll be like Undercover Blues. I get to be Dennis Quaid, so you're Kathleen Turner.”

“I'm not being Kathleen Turner, Shawn.”

“Fine. You can be,” he groped for a substitute, “Lieutenant Ted Sawyer. Happy now?”

“Fine.” Gus nodded. He had enjoyed Obba Babatundé's stage portrayal of Sammy Davis Jr. in Sammy: Once in a Lifetime. He could live with being Lt. Sawyer.

Charlotte squawked and wriggled, as though the idea of Gus as Lt Sawyer annoyed her.

“Now if I could just get a pair of Wayfarers and if you would grow a moustache.... Oh-oh!” Shawn wrinkled his nose. He removed Charlotte from the carrier and sniffed her tentatively. Nodding, he held her out to Gus. “Yep. We've got a situation here.”

Gus stepped back and held up his hands defensively. “Why are you giving her to me? You're the nanny.”

“Manny.”

“Whatever.”

“Come on, Gus,” Shawn pushed Charlotte toward him again. “She needs to be changed.”

“Oh no, Shawn.” Gus crossed his arms and smirked at his friend. “ _You_ are going to change that diaper. And the one after that, and the one after that. You're the manny. Man up.”

“Fine.” Shawn continued to stare confusedly at Charlotte's lower half.

“You haven't changed a diaper before, have you?”

“Duh. Why do you think I'm hanging out with you today?” Shawn shifted Charlotte to his hip, opened his desk drawer and pushed the contents of his desktop into it. He spread out a changing pad and hefted the diaper bag onto the desk.

“No.” Shawn looked up to see Gus shaking his head.

“What? This is perfect.”

“Change her on the floor. Not the desk.”

“The floor?” Shawn, knowing when that he had not, in fact, cleaned the floor the last four times Gus had asked him to, sounded horrified. “Why not the desk?”

“Because she can squirm away from you and fall off the desk. Do you want to have Lassiter meet you at the emergency room?”

Shawn imagined having to call Lassiter from the hospital. “The floor it is!” He pulled the changing pad from the desk, set it onto the rug, and lay Charlotte on it.

“Have you sanitized your hands?” Gus asked.

“Of course,” Shawn stretched up to Gus's desk, pumped a glob of sanitizer onto his hands and rubbed them together. “What's next? This little Strawberry Shortcake is starting to smell ripe!”

“Take off the dirty diaper.”

Shawn unfastened the tabs of the diaper and peeled it open. The horrible smell intensified. He immediately grimaced and turned away.

“Ugh!” Shawn’s nose felt like it was trying to retract into his head. “This smells like a dogfood burrito left in a hot car.”

“You officially gave up your right to complain about smells when you bought a case of Nacho Corn Nuts,” Gus reminded him.

“They’re cheaper by the caseload,” Shawn explained. He turned reluctantly back to the unpleasant task. “How about looks? Can I complain about those?” He gestured at the mess inside the diaper. “That can't be normal. It looks...it looks...”

“I know,” Gus sympathized, wincing and nodding. He brought the lined wastebasket over. “Now wrap the diaper up tightly and throw it in here.” He pulled the can back for a moment and pointed a finger warningly at Shawn. “Do not slam-dunk.”

“Fine.” Shawn wadded up the diaper, sealed it closed with its sticky tabs, and set it into the trash.

Gus glanced anxiously toward the door, hoping that no clients came in to find them hunched over a dirty diaper ** _._** ” Now clean her bottom with the baby wipes.” He grabbed the pack of wipes from the baby bag and held it out to Shawn.

“Can't we just hose her down in the sink?” Shawn asked, glancing wistfully toward the tiny kitchenette. Charlotte grabbed one of her feet and looked expectantly up at Gus, who shook his head.

“You have to wipe front to back,” Gus added. “You don't want to bring her back to Lassiter with an infection, do you?”

Shawn imagined the unchecked fury that would unleash and shook his head, silently mouthing the word “no.” He pulled a handful of baby wipes from their package and stared at the situation before him, muttering, “Front to back, front to back.”

Seeing Shawn's wrinkled brow, Gus added, “The front of the _baby_ , Shawn.”

“Oh. That makes more sense.” Shawn began to wipe her clean.

Charlotte scrunched her face up and began to howl.

“What am I doing wrong?” Shawn felt panicky and incompetent. “Why is she crying?”

Gus rolled his eyes. “Wouldn't you cry if you were bare-assed and cold and someone was messing with you?”

Shawn considered that. “Good point,” he said.

“Babies go through ten or more of those a day.” Gus remarked, watching Shawn's face for a reaction. “Do you still think getting close to Lassiter is worth it?”

Shawn glanced up at Gus and back at Charlotte, wriggling and crying on the floor, and fought to conceal a smile. “What gave me away?”

Gus snorted a laugh. “Please! This is just like the time you agreed to be lunch room monitor because it meant being close to Mr. Coltie.”

Even as he dropped dirty baby wipes into the trashcan, Shawn's eyes glazed with the memory of their grade nine homeroom teacher with his floppy Johnny Depp hair. “You mean Mr. Cutie.”

“ _And_ the time you joined the boys volleyball team, _and_ the time you pretended you knew how to rock climb. You have a history of doing dumb things to impress guys you like.”

“The volleyball team wasn't dumb.” Shawn frowned and grabbed a clean diaper from the bag.

“You couldn't play,” Gus pointed out. “They lost the semi-finals because of you.”

“Okay, but rock climbing was pretty cool.” Shawn maneuvered the clean diaper under Charlotte and wrapped it up around her. Charlotte took a deep breath as though to howl again, but instead, she just let it out and kicked her feet at Shawn.

“Until the fire department had to get you down off Cathedral Peak.”

“Hmmm,” Shawn mused, fastening the diaper with its sticky tabs. “Not one of my more successful dates.”

“This,” Gus said, pointing to Charlotte, who was now comfortable, clean, and smiling, “is a real person. She is not a way to get to Lassiter.”

“That's easy for you to say, you've been dating Jules for what, like eight months now?”

“Eight and a half. But that's a totally different situation.”

“Come on, Gus,” Shawn cajoled, picking Charlotte up and installing her back in the chest carrier. “You've got your hot cop. Help me get mine. That's all I ask.”

***

 


	2. Chapter 2

Lassiter was sitting at his desk finishing his reports on a series of smash and grabs when his desk extension rang. He had always considered himself to be a brave man. But now he was breaking out in a cold sweat every time he answered the phone, expecting to hear someone from the Department of Child Services telling him that they'd found a relative of Charlotte's who was going to take her away.

He steeled his nerve and picked up the receiver. “Lassiter.”

“Hey, it's me.”

O'Hara. His shoulders unclenched slightly.

“What's up?”

“Gus and I were wondering if you wanted to come by my place for dinner on Saturday.”

He could practically hear the smile in her voice and he hoped she wasn't hatching some plot to pair him up with some friend of hers. Ever since she and Guster had started dating she'd been all too interested in his personal life—asking if he was dating, if he was interested in anyone. But the truth was, until he hammered down custody he didn't exactly feel like adding in the rejection of dating.

“I'll see.” Noncommittal.

“Is everything okay? You sound...upset.”

“I'm not upset,” Lassiter said, sounding upset even to himself.

“Really? Cause you sound kind of upset. If there's anything I can do to help—”

He sighed. There was no getting around O'Hara's helpful concern. It was one of the few interrogation techniques he had never developed a defense against. Perhaps because he hadn't encountered it much growing up.

“It's just this foster care crap,” he muttered, embarrassed to even be mentioning it. A detective's personal life was not supposed to leak into his work life. But as the stress of dealing with the bureaucracy and the waiting and the uncertainty increased, Lassiter found that his personal life was leaking onto his work like a broken juice bag.

“How's that going?”

“The licensing's done, but I'm waiting on a permanency hearing.” Lassiter had been up late each night, pouring over the state Welfare and Institutions Code s 361-366. As he saw it, he had a good shot at having a judge terminate the parental rights of Charlotte's birth parents, the Conways, under the abuse/neglect and failure to provide support clauses in addition to their impending felony conviction. Still, Child Protective Services still had five months left in which they had to make a reasonable attempt to place Charlotte with a blood relative. The waiting was killing him.

“I'm sure you'll present a strong case,” O'Hara said. Lassiter wished he felt her optimism. Technically, he had no legal standing ~~,~~ although he would have an opportunity to be heard in court. He was sure the prosecutor was already sick of getting his emails. “In the meantime,” she continued, “take your mind off it. Come for dinner.”

“Fine.” Lassiter sighed. “What should I bring?”

“Just yourself,” he could hear the enthusiasm in her voice. Something was afoot. “And Charlotte, of course,” she added.

Lassiter grunted. He'd have to bring her anyway. Tomorrow was Shawn's night off.

***

“Celebrate good times, Come on!” Shawn hummed to himself as he rang the doorbell to Juliet's apartment. “Let's celebrate.” He may not have Kool & the Gang's stylish jheri curls, their white leather dress shoes, or their kick-step dance moves, but he would make up for that in enthusiasm. And tropical fruit.

Juliet, looking over her shoulder and laughing in response to something Gus had just said, opened the door, turned and smiled at him.

“Shawn! Come in,” She pulled the door wide and stepped aside. Shawn noticed the twitching around her mouth as she tried to restrain her smile. That grin she was trying to hold in check could only mean that Gus had told her everything. His Lassiter crush was out of the Vault of Secrets. He'd kind of expected that.

“You didn't tell me this was a fancy dress party.” He put the pineapple he'd brought on Juliet's credenza. “I'd have worn my spats.”

Juliet looked down. “I'm wearing jeans, Shawn,” she said.

“Yeah, but they're...” He tilted his head to one side. “Fancy jeans. And you're...frilly.”

“Frilly?” Gus came up behind Juliet and put his arm around her waist. “She's not frilly.”

Shawn gestured at Juliet's lace-edged blouse. “She's totally frilly.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” A voice from behind Shawn asked.

Shawn turned. Lassiter had just arrived and was standing on the doorstep with an anxious look on his face.

“Lassie!” Shawn exclaimed. “Hey!” He took in the sight of Lassiter, sans suit jacket, with the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up. “Check you, whipping out the manly forearms there, Lassie! You look so good I just want to squeeze the hot right out of you.”

Lassiter put Charlotte's car seat on the floor and closing the door behind him. He turned on Shawn with suspicion written large across his brow. “Squeeze the...are you drunk, Spencer?”

Behind him, Juliet was pursing her lips and shaking her head, a sign that Shawn took that his statement might be too much too soon.

“Like a smoothie?” he added, hopeful that his flirtatious metaphor might yet connect. He illustrated by making a squeezing motion with his hands. “Jamba-juice style? No?” When he still saw only a confused and suspicious glare from Lassiter he waved a hand dismissively. “Ah, forget it! The sleeves look nice.”

“I had to change her in the car,” Lassiter explained, rolling down his sleeves and buttoning his cuffs. He turned his frown on Shawn again. “I thought you had dinner plans,” he said.

“I do.” Shawn gestured at Juliet and Gus. “Right here. I brought a pineapple. What did you bring?” He dropped to a crouch next to Charlotte and began to maneuver her out of her car seat. “Hi, googly-eyes. Are you Lassie's pineapple? Yes you are, beautiful girl, yes you are.”

“Get off the floor, Shawn,” Gus said, but he was smiling.

Shawn did, hoisting Charlotte. “Oof. You are gaining weight like nobody's business. Lassie. You are not supposed to food-process donuts.”

“I do not give her donuts,” Lassiter snapped. He turned with pleading eyes to Gus and O'Hara. “I didn't. Really.”

“I'm _kidding.”_ Shawn kissed Charlotte on the top of her head and carried her into the kitchen. “They know I'm kidding. I eat the donuts. Seriously, though, Jules, I'm starving.”

Seated across from one another at the table in Juliet's dining room, Lassiter was beginning to get the feeling that something was going on as looks passed back and forth between his partner, Gus and Shawn.

“So, Lassiter,” Gus said in what he hoped was a casual conversational tone, “did you know that Shawn is an excellent marksman?”

Lassiter turned to look at Shawn, who was staring at him with a lopsided grin.

“It's true,” Shawn admitted. “My groupings are very tight.” He wiggled his eyebrows and Lassiter thought there was something distinctly suggestive in the way he’d said ‘tight.’

“Hey,” Juliet chimed in, “why don't the two of you go to the range together some time? You love the range, Carlton.”

“The range is too loud for babies,” Lassiter said firmly.

“I think they were suggesting that you an I go alone,” Shawn said. “Alone together.”

Lassiter looked at Shawn with his best Head Detective stare. “You think you can beat me at the range? Is that it, Spencer?”

“Why?” Shawn asked, all wide-eyed and innocent. “You think I can't?”

Lassiter smirked. “I think it's safe to say that there is no situation imaginable in which I couldn't beat you.”

“Lassie,” Shawn said, peering at him coquettishly from under his lashes, “All you had to do was ask.”

Gus began to cough loudly, and Lassiter was almost certain that one of the coughs had actually been a muffled word.

Shawn clapped his hands together. “I have an idea. Let's play a dinner game. Let's play 'I never.' The rules are simple. You name something you've done and anyone at the table who hasn't done it has to take a drink. Obviously, Charlotte can’t play because she’s just a baby and her life experience is short and her tolerance for alcohol is way too low. Lassie, let's start with you. Might I suggest you start with something simple, like showering with another man?”

“Shawn!” Gus hissed warningly.

“What?” Shawn protested. “There's a water shortage on, Gus. I bet lots of guys have done that.”

“Fine.” Shawn poked thoughtfully at his salad. “Let’s talk entertainment. Did anyone else find it creepy that the guy who played Dexter married the girl who played his sister?”

“You know they're not actually related, right?” Juliet looked searchingly at him. “They just play relatives on the show.”

“Yeah,” Gus agreed. “Michael C. Hall and Jennifer Carpenter just happen to work together.” He smiled at Juliet. “And sometimes work brings people closer together.”

Lassiter made a face and shook his head slightly. “I'm with Spencer,” he said. “It's definitely creepy.”

Shawn beamed. “Thank-you, Lassie.” He liked it when Lassiter was with him.

Halfway through the main course, Gus stood up. “Ahem.”

Shawn's mouth fell open. “Oh my God, you're engaged.”

“Shawn!” Juliet looked at once annoyed and crestfallen.

“Sorry, buddy,” Shawn said, looking apologetically at Gus, who was glaring. “But hey, congratulations!”

“Engaged?” Lassiter said blankly. “Engaged in what?”

“Like, diamond ring, wedding planning, balconies and Christmas lights,” Shawn explained.

Gus sat back down with a huff. “Shawn, you ruin everything.”

“What do balconies and Christmas lights have to do with being engaged?” Juliet asked, frowning.

“I don't know,” Shawn said, turning back to Charlotte's pureed bananas. “I just always picture, I don't know, proposals on balconies. With Christmas lights on the railing. And big umbrellas.”

“You watch too many movies,” Gus muttered. “Do you want to see the ring, or what?”

“I do,” said Lassiter, because Juliet was looking increasingly dismayed with the conversation. At this, the frown disappeared and was replaced by a wide, bright smile.

“Be right back!” she sang, and scampered upstairs. She was back less than a minute later, left hand stuck straight out in front of her.

“Wow, buddy.” Shawn held up a hand, shielding his eyes. “That thing is massive.”

“Isn't it gorgeous?” Juliet did a little hop. The diamond flashed with her movement. “He picked it out all by himself.” She put her arm around Gus's waist and kissed him on the cheek.

“So obviously this means I’m going to be best man,” Shawn looked to Gus for confirmation. The fact that Gus hadn’t discussed the proposal with him beforehand tying his stomach into little knots. Gus’s nod loosened them slightly. He turned to Juliet. “Who’s the maid of honor? Please say it’s not that woman who takes the mug shots. She gives me the creeps. I suspect she’s stealing souls for her demon god.”

“It’s not Heather,” Juliet gave Shawn a disapproving look. “And her eyes have been like that since birth, Shawn.” She turned to Lassiter. “Actually, I thought that Carlton might want to—”

“Be a maid of honor?” Lassiter grimaced. How soft did people think taking care of a baby was making him?

Juliet shook her head. “No, be my best man. A lot of women are doing it nowadays, and you’re my partner, and my friend. I figured it made sense.” Lassiter thought about Juliet’s attempts to make female friends within the department. He could see the anxiety seeping into her face. “But I suppose I could ask Heather.”

“I’ll do it,” Lassiter said abruptly. “I’ll be your best man.”

“Great!” Shawn leaned toward him. “I look forward to working with you on an amazing stag and doe party. I have three words for you—don’t say no until you hear them—Milli-Vanilli impersonators.” Shawn hurried on, over-riding anyone’s attempt to object. “They’re inexpensive, and they actually sing, although they’ll lipsync for an extra twenty.”

“No.” Lassiter fought back a smile. He would not allow Shawn to fill O’Hara’s special day with men in braids lip-syncing to ‘Girl You Know it’s True.’

“Give it a chance,” Shawn complained as Gus and Juliet went into the kitchen for the next dishes. “For an extra fifty they do a striptease.”

***

 


	3. Chapter 3

To say the day had been long would be an understatement. By the time Lassiter got home, it was after ten, more than three hours past the time he'd told Shawn to expect him. Shawn had responded to his going-to-be-late texts with his usual aplomb, but Lassiter still felt terrible.

He tried to be as quiet as possible as he unlocked the door and opened it. Shawn must have had to put Charlotte to bed, which he didn't normally do, and Charlotte—how would she have been? Fretful, probably, distressed that her normal bedtime routine was being disrupted by Lassiter's absence. Would she have taken her nighttime bottle or just arched her back and cried? Would it have taken Shawn hours to get her to lie quietly in her crib?

He had his answer the moment he opened the door.

Shawn was on the couch, naked from the waist up, and snoring lightly, the throw blanket wrapped around one leg. Three feet away, sleeping soundly in her Pack and Play, was Charlotte. Her hands, so much chubbier now, and more dexterous by the day, were wrapped around a T-shirt instead of her blanket. Lassiter recognized it. It was Shawn's.

Lassiter was momentarily stricken. He stood in the doorway, unable to move, trying to absorb the scene before him. If anyone had told him six months ago that Shawn Spencer would be on his couch in the middle of the night, having cared—fairly competently, he had to admit—for an infant for the better part of the day, Lassiter would have laughed. And then, possibly, delivered a swift right hook for sheer impertinence. But now...

He remembered, suddenly, a word association game he'd played as a child as part of an entrance examination to a gifted program at school. He remembered being shown little line drawings and asked to say the first word that came to mind. A drawing of a rabbit and a fox: danger. Of a woman under a beach umbrella, with her feet in the waves: shark. A child on a bicycle: helmet.

Four people—two adults, two children—around a dinner table. He remembered that one especially, because the interviewer had asked him about it later. The word he had said was “hide.” His answers hadn’t gotten him into the gifted program, but they had gotten him some sessions with the school counselor.

Words came to him now, seeming to drift across his field of vision as he stood in his living room and looked at Shawn and Charlotte.

Close. Warm. Safe.

Family.

He pushed that last one away. If his life had taught him anything it was having hopes or dreams was the surest way to get fate to kick you in the balls.

He knelt by Shawn's head, and whispered, “Spencer.”

“Nngh.” Shawn rolled onto his back and put an arm over his face.

Lassiter put his hand on Shawn's shoulder. “Hey. Spencer.” He cleared his throat and spoke slightly louder. “Shawn.”

Shawn's eyes opened. He turned. “Oh.” Voice hoarse with sleep. “Hi, Lassie.”

“Sorry I'm late.” Lassiter stood.

Shawn sat up slowly, groaning. “Man, Lassie. Your couch—”

He stopped himself when Charlotte whimpered and shifted in her sleep. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I'll put her to bed.”

“Let me.” Lassiter reached down, sliding one hand under Charlotte's head and the other under her bottom. She made a face and wriggled again, but she didn't wake up. He went into the bedroom and laid her in her crib as lightly as he could. When he came out, he was careful not to let the door click shut.

Lassiter reached into the Pack and Play, retrieved Shawn’s shirt, and held it out to him. Admitting his surprise at Spencer’s newfound sense of responsibility was one thing, but having him standing half naked in his livingroom was another kettle of fish entirely. With blood burning in his ears he looked at the carpet and at the tiny plush bunny his mother had given Charlotte—anywhere but Spencer’s chest. “How was she?” he asked.

“Fine,” Shawn said, stretching. “We ate dinner, then cracked a couple beers and played Halo. She thought Infinity Multiplayer was cool, but we both agreed it didn't really live up to the hype.”

Lassiter glared. Shawn threw up his hands. He still hadn’t bothered to put on the shirt.

“You really have no sense of humor late at night, do you, Lassie? She had her bottle and baby food, we read some books, we did her therapy exercises, she went to sleep. No big deal.”

No big deal.

“Great.” Lassiter looked away, feeling awkward. “If you had no problems, then I guess I'll—” He stopped talking when he heard Charlotte on the baby monitor, first making little fretful noises, then escalating into an all-out wail.

“She's awake,” Shawn said.

“Thank you for that piercing insight,” Lassiter snapped, and went into the bedroom. Charlotte had worked herself up into a sweating fury in a dismayingly short amount of time, and it was clear that rocking her a little and putting her back in her crib was not an option. Lassiter picked her up and carried her into the living room.

Shawn made a face and covered his hands with his ears. “Ooh. Though she be but little, she is fierce!”

Lassiter blinked. “Did you just quote Shakespeare?”

“Was that Shakespeare?” Shawn said. “I just remember Kevin Kline, Rupert Everett, and Michelle Pfeiffer looking hot.” He grinned.

“Just...” Lassiter sat on the couch, grabbed the remote and turned on the television. “Sit down.”

Shawn sat.

Lassiter switched the channel to a station that was showing The First 48.

“Oh, look!” he said to Charlotte, delight filling his voice. “Detectives in Phoenix Arizona have found the victim of a fatal assault tied up in a hotel room.”

Charlotte made a sound that even to Shawn’s tired ears sounded like a question.

“That’s what Detective Mike Polk and his team have to find out,” Lassiter continued, his voice smooth and soothing. “Who did it? First he’ll check the security cameras and see if they caught images of the killers arriving or fleeing the scene while his team combs the hotel room for evidence.” As he talked, Shawn moved closer and closer to him on the couch. When Lassiter flashed him a quizzical look, Shawn shrugged.

“Can't hear,” he said, and scooted again.

The sudden weight of Shawn's body against him was disconcerting, and he lost his train of thought for a moment. But Shawn, he noticed, wasn't wriggling around or interrupting or doing any of the other juvenile, incredibly irritating things he normally did.

And Lassiter relaxed. In fact, after that first initial shock of contact, he found himself actually kind of enjoying Shawn's solid warmth next to him. It was, of course, a purely biological response: all animals liked to be close to each other for body heat. Cats, for example. He’d once seen his mother’s two tomcats curled up on a chair, licking each other’s head. It wasn’t homosexual, exactly; it was just science. So the fact that he leaned into Shawn—just a little bit—was immaterial. It didn't mean anything at all.

By the time he finished explaining how detective Polk reconstructed the victim’s last hours, tracing his steps back to when he met his killers, Charlotte was asleep. It took him all of four seconds to realize that Shawn was too.

He turned his head as slowly and carefully as possible. Shawn was tucked up against him on the couch, his head heavy against his shoulder, his breath coming slow and even. He'd pulled both legs up under the throw blanket and had managed to work one arm behind Lassiter's back.

Lassiter reasoned that he would give it another forty-five minutes before he tried to move Charlotte back into her room. He switched the channel to an episode of Criminal Minds and turned down the volume. He didn’t really need sound for that show anyway. Even without sound Hotchner would still be his team’s moral compass in the storm, Morgan and Garcia would still be flirtatious while saving the day, and Spencer Reid would still be…well he would still be enjoyable. Lassiter felt a warm stirring that he quickly pushed back into a dark corner of his soul.

 _Damn these Spencers,_ he thought. _Both the television kind and the ones in real life._

But even as these thoughts submerged his eyes rebelled and he found himself staring at Shawn again, visually tracing the line of his collarbone.

He really was very…Lassiter pulled his eyes away and stared resolutely at the television.

 _It was some kind of pack mentality_ , he told himself. _Just psychological._ Whatever the cause, Lassiter found himself feeling as if he, Charlotte, and most staggering of all, Shawn, formed some kind of a unit.

The thought that he was bonding this hard with Charlotte was terrifying, especially if he considered how precarious his claim on her actually was. In the eyes of the law he was just some stranger who changed her diaper and fed her. He understood the reasons behind the rules, but it didn’t make him feel any better. The gap between law and justice had widened for him in a way that was distinctly uncomfortable. More and more he could envision a situation in which he found himself on the wrong side of the law. He pushed the thought away. When the time came, he would do whatever had to be done. Until then, he would do what he could.

The fact that his pack mentality had added Spencer to the fold didn’t exactly fill him with joy either. It was natural to respond to beauty, but when it came to Spencer, that particular weakness had no future. He may as well fall for a television character. Lassiter stole another sideways glance. Certainly, Spencer was in fine physical condition. For a man. A very straight and completely clueless man.

 _This is not the beginning of something_ , he reminded himself. Spencer was just an employee, nothing more. To men like Spencer, falling asleep wasn’t a sign of trust. He was probably the kind of guy who fell asleep on public transit, or passed out on people’s lawns. It didn’t indicate any kind of special bond between them. Certainly nothing sexual. Those jokes he made all the time practically proved it. Lassiter knew from first-hand experience, feelings like that were nothing to joke about. The fact that Spencer was so comfortable being half naked in front of him was just the final nail in the coffin. No one who was genuinely attracted to another man could be so blasé about it.

Lassiter thought of how removing his own shirt in front of Spencer would feel and the mixture of desperation, anticipation and panic that washed over him removed all his doubts. He had to get off this couch and away from Spencer for both their sakes. Now.

Cradling Charlotte in his left arm, Lassiter slowly slid himself out from beneath Shawn’s weight. Shawn groaned a complaint, reached a hand out as if searching for him on the couch, and then settled back into sleep.

Lassiter carried Charlotte into her room, reminding himself as he did so that the three of them were not a family.

That kind of thing didn’t happen to men like him.

***

Three days later, Lassiter returned home from work with an anger boiling in his gut. An anger that had Shawn Spencer’s name all over it. Clutching his evidence, he unlocked the door and strode inside. The house smelled wonderfully warm and cheesy, but even as his mouth watered and he realized how long it had been since lunch, he knew he had to confront Spencer with the evidence of his crime.

“Spencer, what is this?” He reached over the couch and stuck the invitation in Shawn's face, directly in his line of vision. The damn things had been all over the station.

Shawn tipped his head back and grinned up at Lassiter. “It's a baby shower invitation, Lassie, what does it look like?”

“It looks like you're inviting people over to _my house_ is what it looks like.” Lassiter came around the couch and stood in front of Shawn, arms folded. Charlotte, seeing him, spit out her pacifier and gave him a wide, toothless grin. He smiled a hello down at her and then turned a surly face back to Shawn. “Explain.”

Shawn retrieved the pacifier and held it out to Lassiter. “I just thought, hey, it's not every day you get a baby. They make a big deal of it when you're a girl. I've seen _Baby Mama_.”

Lassiter took the pacifier and went to the kitchen sink to rinse it off. As the water ran over his fingers, he allowed himself a weary smirk. Despite himself, he thought the shower idea was actually a pretty thoughtful—if misguided—gesture. He gave a passing thought to his dwindling bank balance. Having a baby was turning out to be more expensive than he’d expected. While a baby shower would undoubtedly be a hellish ordeal, at least he might come out of it with some decent clothes for Charlotte. She was quickly outgrowing the onesies he’d bought.

“Next time, ask,” he grumbled. He came back to the couch and sat down beside Shawn. “How was today?”

Shawn handed Charlotte over. She grabbed for Lassiter's tie and put it in her mouth.

“A lot of that,” Shawn said, indicating the vast quantity of slobber Charlotte was lovingly applying to Lassiter's tie. “Some of this—”he patted her bottom—”and _wots of dis._ ” He adopted a baby-talk voice and put his face next to Charlotte's. She giggled and squealed when he gave her a loud, sloppy kiss on the cheek.

“You're not supposed to talk to her in a baby voice,” Lassiter said, frowning. “It might impair her—”

“Speech development, I know.” Shawn sat up. “You've told me, like, eight times. No baby talk. Can we negotiate on valley girl talk or lines from Pootie Tang?” When Lassiter stared silently instead of responding, he continued. “Don't worry. I make up for it during the day. We read out loud.” He grinned. “Mostly the case files you're not supposed to keep at home.”

“Those are not for _babies_.” Lassiter gritted his teeth. Children should be at least seven before they delved into a case file.  And even then he felt strongly that they should start with basic cases, such as vandalism. It was never too early to learn that graffiti led directly to a life of misery.

“Lassie!” The playful tone was gone. Shawn looked at him with wide eyes. “I'm kidding! I’m kidding. I’ve read Pat the Bunny so many times I’ve memorized it. Now it’s like that damn AllStar song by Smash Mouth. It was everywhere for three years. You couldn’t escape. In fact, just thinking about it now gave me the nastiest earworm. Hey now, you’re a rockstar, get your game on, go play!” Shawn looked at Lassiter with large, puppy-dog eyes. “Please. Shoot me. It’s the only humane thing to do given the circumstances.”

Lassiter scowled. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Hey.” Shawn put a hand on Lassiter's arm. “Relax, okay? I know this is new for you and you don't like being away from her. But you can trust me. I promise.” Suddenly he was grinning again. “When have I ever let you down?”

Lassiter gave him a look. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

“I mean with something _important,”_ Shawn said impatiently. “Not _once_ have I ever forgotten your lunch order.”

“A baby is not a hoagie,” Lassiter pointed out sharply. The mention of lunch had him wondering about that delicious smell again.

“Lassie, look at this place.” Shawn stood up and swept his arms out.

Lassiter looked. His apartment, he saw, was clean. Really _clean_. Sparkling, even. Charlotte's toys were stacked in a brand-new cubby in the corner, the carpet had been vacuumed, the countertops gleamed.

“Now look at this baby.” He folded his arms. “Is that a kid who looks neglected?”

Charlotte smiled up at him, round-cheeked and rosy, smelling sweetly of baby shampoo and clean diaper.

“That outfit is _pristine,_ ” Shawn said. “Now, granted, I put it on her literally thirty seconds before you got home, so I'd estimate its expiration date is about...” He looked at his watch. “Four minutes from now. But. That is a clean, well-fed, happy baby. You have a clean, well-scrubbed, happy apartment.” He pointed at the kitchen, where, Lassiter now saw, a pot of something on the stove. “You are about to be a clean well-fed Lassiter.” He tilted his head. “Now. What can I do to make that third adjective happen for you? How do we get you happy?”

Lassiter looked up at Shawn: at the frown, the crossed arms, the challenge in his hazel eyes. He opened his mouth. Closed it.

“Ah,” he said. “I don't—” He broke off and looked away. “Sorry.” He could not tell Shawn any of the things that made him happy. He couldn’t afford to give anyone that kind of ammunition.

“Yeah.” Shawn sounded only slightly mollified. “That's what I thought.” He picked up his jacket and shrugged into it, then reached for his bag. “See you tomorrow.”

“Shawn, wait.”

Shawn slung the bag over his shoulder. “Yeah.”

Lassiter hesitated. Then: “Stay for dinner.”

There was a long pause. Shawn gazed at Lassiter, his expression utterly unreadable. Lassiter was starting to think he'd made a mistake when Shawn abruptly smiled.

“Thought you'd never ask,” Shawn said easily. He dropped the bag. Slid out of his jacket and dropped that, too. Then he went into the kitchen and began taking dishes out of the cabinets.

“You want a big bowl or a little bowl?” he asked.

Lassiter stood up, putting Charlotte on his hip. “That depends.” He nodded toward the pot on the stove. “What are we having?”

Shawn smirked. “This is actually a decoy.” He lifted the lid and tipped the empty pot toward Lassiter. “I washed it already. Chicken primavera's in the oven.”

Lassiter sat down at a barstool and sat Charlotte on the counter. “Where'd you learn to make that?”

“Hey, careful.” Shawn's eyebrows drew down when he saw Charlotte sitting between Lassiter's hands.

“Now who's being overprotective?” But Lassiter took Charlotte off the counter and put her back in his arms. “Big bowl,” he added, when Shawn, looking impatient, held up both options.

“To answer your question, Lassie, O esteemed connoisseur of all things culinary, overlooking your incomprehensible love of Cream of Wheat -- “

“It's healthy,” Lassiter interrupted.

“Exactly. Ew. To answer your question, I learned to make it during a summer in Chipilo.”

Lassiter frowned. “Isn't that in Mexico?”

“There are Italians everywhere, dude.” Shawn reached for wine glasses. “They're like, ambassadors for pasta.”

Lassiter strapped Charlotte into her high chair as Shawn set the table with the pasta and bread.

“What's this?” Lassiter examined the three small plastic bowls Shawn was placing next to Charlotte's bottle, each appearing to contain a small quantity of brown glop.

“Right to left? Bananas, pears, and oatmeal,” Shawn said. “No primavera for our prima donna. Combination foods maybe in a few more months. If you're good,” he added in a coo, making Charlotte smile.

Seeing Lassiter's surprised expression, Shawn shrugged. “In case she has food allergies. You know, so we know which food caused it.”

Lassiter stared mutely. Why on earth did Shawn know this?

“What? You think I can't read a baby book?” Shawn scoffed. “Give me some credit.” He pushed Lassiter's plate. “Try it.”

Lassiter sat and took a tentative forkful of the chicken pasta dish into his mouth. It tasted good.

“Ah ah ah!” Charlotte was stretching both hands toward her bottle, her little face drawn up into a knot of displeasure.

“Sorry,” Lassiter said to her. “Daddy was rude.” He picked the bottle up and put it in her mouth. She held onto it, but he kept it securely supported as she ate. He could feel Shawn’s eyes on him.

 _Should I not have said Daddy?_ He wondered. He’d been doing it recently when no one was around, just to see how it felt. It had felt good, and alarmingly…right. But this was the first time he’d referred to himself that way in front of anyone else. And he would have had to slip in front of Shawn. He may as well have announced it over the loudspeaker at a Gauchos game.

Shawn, however, didn’t comment.

“Here.” Shawn was reaching into his bag. “I picked this up today to give to Gus and Juliet, kind of a late engagement present. The pineapple didn't seem sufficient.” He pulled out a bottle of wine. “But I think we should drink it instead.”

Lassiter took the bottle with his free hand. “Um. Thanks.”

Lassiter relaxed a little. Shawn hadn’t commented on it, called him “Big Daddy,” or done anything at all to indicate he’d noticed him using the d-word.

“It’s Topo Gigio,” Shawn said, rummaging in a drawer. “Good for seafoods, poultry, and—” he pointed with the corkscrew to Lassiter's plate, “—by happy coincidence, pasta. It's supposed to complement light foods. At least, that’s what the guy at the liquor store said.”

“It's pinot grigio,” Lassiter said, watching Shawn neatly remove the cork from the wine bottle. He held out his glass and allowed Shawn to fill it. “Topo Gigio is the puppet mouse from the Ed Sullivan Show.”

“I've heard it both ways.” Shawn poured a glass for himself and sat down.

Charlotte finished her bottle and spit out the nipple. Lassiter was about to reach for her baby spoon when Shawn stopped him.

“I got it,” he said, his fingertips light on Lassiter's wrist. “You eat.”

So Lassiter did, watching as Shawn spooned bananas into Charlotte's waiting mouth and caught the drips with her plastic spoon. With his other hand, he shoved a forkful of primavera into his own mouth.

“Nice coordination,” Lassiter commented dryly.

“Thanks.” Shawn actually looked a little bit proud. “Just, er, stop me if I start to get mixed up, okay?”

“So.” Lassiter twisted the stem of the wine glass between his fingers.

“So,” Shawn replied.

“Why are we having wine?” Lassiter eyed Shawn suspiciously. During his marriage, various anniversaries had crept up with alarming rapidity and stealth. And Shawn had just _happened_ to pull that bottle out of his bag. It felt as if they were celebrating something.

“Don't worry,” Shawn assured him, grinning over the rim of his wine glass. “I won't let you take advantage of me on a first date. Although for the record, my schedule isn't the only thing that's flexible.”

Lassiter choked on his chicken primavera and took a gulp of wine to clear his windpipe. Spencer's jokes were always so unnerving. And they were jokes, _weren't they?_

***

 


	4. Chapter 4

“The place looks fine,” Shawn assured Lassiter for the tenth time.

“Fine isn’t good enough,” Lassiter snapped. Any minute now a social worker was going to be looking the place over with an eagle eye and making up her mind about whether or not he was an adequate parent. This wasn’t the time to slack off.

Shawn rolled his eyes and followed up with a neck roll for good measure.

“Dude, you’ve got a smoke detector, a carbon monoxide detector, a fire extinguisher and a first aid kit that makes the emergency department of the Santa Barbara hospital look like a couple of dirty Band-Aids at the bottom of Doogie Howser’s backpack.”

Lassiter frowned down at the clipboard in his hand. “I’ve got adequate space. Check.” He grabbed the knob of a lower cabinet and gave it a firm shake. “Baby-proofed cabinets, check.”

“Oh it’s baby-proofed,” Shawn agreed. “And kid, adolescent, and adult-proofed too. I can’t even get in there now. What if I want to cook something?”

“Get takeout,” Lassiter muttered. Truth be told, the hardest part of babyproofing his home had been deciding what to do with all the firearms he used to keep hidden around the place. But a few biometric gun vaults in strategic locations had taken care of that.  He stared intently at the far wall. “Maybe I should put a few more securing screws into the bookshelf.”

“That bookshelf isn’t going anywhere,” Shawn assured him. “An earthquake could knock down the building and that bookshelf wouldn’t move.”

Lassiter ignored him. “Secured the windows, check.”

Shawn stepped in close and fastened him in the grip of his hazel stare.

“Lassie, relax. We got this.”

Before he had time to reflect on Shawn’s casual use of the word “we,” the doorbell was ringing. It was time.

The social worker, Ms. Rodriguez, was in her mid thirties. She wore a dress shirt and slacks and kept her dark hair pulled back into a French roll. She looked like a woman who appreciated neatness. Gus would have loved her, Shawn thought. She shook hands with Shawn and Lassiter and allowed them to show her into the apartment.

“Charlotte’s room is this way,” Lassiter indicated the hallway with a sweep of his arm. He was particularly anxious to show her Charlotte’s room, which thanks to the bounty of Shawn’s baby shower was now well stocked with clothes, toys, and a changing table whose safety rating was the highest in its class. But Rodriguez lowered herself into an armchair and opened her briefcase instead, spreading her papers out onto the coffee table.

“I’d prefer to start with you, Mr. Lassiter,” she said, staring intently at the contents of a manila folder. She turned her gaze to Shawn, who had followed her lead and was now sitting nervously on the couch across from her. “And your name is?”

“Spencer. Shawn Spencer.”

“And, you’re a couple?” She looked reproachfully at the notes in her hand, as if blaming them for not having Shawn’s information included.

“No! Good god, no!” His words sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet apartment.

 _Have I been being that obvious?_ Lassiter wondered.  If even a stranger could sense he was attracted to Shawn then he’d really let his guard down.

“Mr. Spencer just works for me.” Lassiter’s eyes widened with alarm and he shifted, moving away further down the sofa.

Shawn, his ubiquitous smile now nowhere to be seen, tilted his head and looked thoughtfully at Lassiter. The effect was alarming; as if someone had pulled the plug on whatever it was that Lassiter recognized as Shawn, leaving his body on autopilot. But Lassiter had no time to think about Shawn’s feelings. He was fighting for Charlotte, and he couldn’t risk screwing it up.

“That’s right.” Shawn’s voice was curiously flat. “I just show up to change the occasional diaper and whatnot.” Suddenly, the smile returned and Shawn was switched on again. “Which means of course that there’s still an opening for a future Mrs. Lassiter. You wouldn’t happen to be single, would you, Ms. Rodriguez?”

“No.” The response was like the smack of a rolled up newspaper across his nose. She turned to Lassiter. “So why do you want to adopt?”

Lassiter’s mouth went dry. He’d rehearsed the conversation with the caseworker in his head a hundred – no, a _thousand_ – times. He’d expected a thorough examination of his house’s safeguards, not an interrogation about his background. Certainly not questions about his feelings.

“Well.” He cleared his throat, feeling his face heat up. “At this point in my career—er, life—I feel that it would be best—that is, if—” This was a nightmare. His tongue felt as if it were glued to the roof of his mouth, blocking all coherent speech. His mind was a blank, occupied only by the growing certainty that he was screwing up the interview and ruining Charlotte’s future in one fell swoop.

Shawn interrupted. “You should’ve seen him with her when she came home from the hospital,” he said.

Ms. Rodriguez blinked. She turned back to Shawn, curiosity creeping into her expression. “Elaborate,” she said slowly.

Shawn tilted his head. “When I met Lass—er, Detective Lassiter, I thought he was about the stodgiest, stick-in-the-muddiest person in Santa Barbara,” he said.

 _Shut up, Spencer!_ Lassiter thought. _Shut it, shut it, shut it!_ But Shawn was still talking, and from the look on Ms. Rodriguez’ face, she was hanging on every word.

“I’d never seen someone so focused,” Shawn said. “He was never out of step. He was like the opening performance of the Beijing Olympics.”

Ms. Rodriguez’s lips thinned. “Mr. Spencer,” she started to say.

“But something changed after he got Charlotte.” Shawn continued as though he hadn’t heard. “He was still a bit of a Mr. Roboto, but he was…” He paused. “Gentle. He cares about Charlotte like I’ve never seen him care about anyone in the five years I’ve known him. He loves that baby and I can’t think of anyone better to be her dad.”

Ms. Rodriguez looked carefully at Shawn’s wide eyes, at his guileless expression. There was a long, excruciating moment. Lassiter held his breath.

And then she smiled, and Lassiter breathed again. “Well,” she said, turning to Lassiter. “That was certainly a glowing endorsement from your friend.”

If the eager grin on Shawn’s face flickered a little at the word _friend_ , Ms. Rodriguez didn’t seem to notice. Lassiter, however, knew that his words, however true they were, had cut.

“Anything you’d like to add?” Ms. Rodriguez asked him.

Lassiter swallowed. “I just—appreciate the opportunity,” he said. “To get the chance to be her,” he paused and then forced the word out, “…father.”

Shawn cuffed Lassiter on the arm. “He’s not good with words,” he explained to Ms. Rodriguez. “But trust me. He adores her.” He smiled winningly.

Ms. Rodriguez smiled back at Shawn, then made a note in her file folder. “All right.” She flipped a page. “Mr. Lassiter. Tell me about your childhood.”

 _Childhood_? Lassiter drew himself up. “I had a very fortunate childhood.”

“Interesting choice of words.” Ms. Rodriguez made another note. “What about it made your childhood _fortunate_?”

“I had everything I required,” Lassiter said, “and an excellent education, to boot.” He said the words smoothly, and hoped that the interview wouldn’t include a session with a polygraph.

Shawn nodded. “If I had half the upbringing Detective Lassiter’d had, I would probably be doing more than babysitting for a living.” Lassiter heard a note of melancholy creep into Shawn’s voice.

Ms. Rodriguez’s eyes widened, and to Lassiter’s shock, she patted Shawn on the shoulder. “Don’t ever downplay your job,” she said reassuringly. “What you do is just as important as what Mr. Lassiter does.”

“I hardly think—” Lassiter started, but stopped when he saw Shawn’s warning look.

“Thank you, Ms. Rodriguez,” Shawn said in a small, wistful voice. “You’re really a wonderfully supportive person.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Spencer,” Ms. Rodriguez said, and was she actually _blushing?_ She cleared her throat. “Let’s get back to the interview,” she said, once more adopting a businesslike tone.

“Of course,” Lassiter said.

“Tell me about your parents,” she said. “How were you disciplined as a child?”

For the next forty minutes Lassiter felt like Rocky, fighting the Big Russian. Every blow was staggering, leaving him dazed as he stumbled though his responses.

“How would you describe your philosophy of parenting?” A left to the abdomen.

“How are your finances?” A jab to the kidneys.

“Tell me about your personal life.” A hook to the temple. Lassiter saw stars. But like Rocky, he persevered. He had to, because no matter how invasive or painful or raw things got, Charlotte needed him to do this, and to do it well.

“You have a dangerous job, Detective Lassiter. What’s your plan in the event that something happens to you?” An uppercut to the jaw. Lassiter talked briefly about his life insurance, but from the look on Ms. Rodriguez’ face he knew he that it wouldn’t be long before he’d be on the canvas.

“There’s no worry there,” Shawn assured her. “If anything happens to Lassie there’s a bunch of us who’d be lined up to pitch in.” Lassiter looked at Shawn with surprise. “Me, Jules and Gus for sure, McNab, even Chief Vick.” Shawn slapped him heavily on the back. “We’ve got you covered.”

As Lassiter led Ms. Rodriguez through the rest of the house, he wondered if Shawn was putting on a good front for the caseworker of if he really meant what he’d said. Did all those people have his back?

“Well,” Ms. Rodriguez said, closing her file folder as they returned to the livingroom, “I think I have everything I need.”

Lassiter nodded, still dazed by the process and by Shawn’s assurance of support. “If there’s anything else—”

“You forgot the most important thing!” Shawn sang.

Ms. Rodriguez and Lassiter turned. Shawn was coming out down the hall, carrying a sleepy-eyed Charlotte in his arms.

“Oh my goodness, isn’t she _darling_ ,” Ms. Rodriguez said. She reached for Charlotte, but Charlotte didn’t notice: she had spotted Lassiter. She broke into a gummy grin.

“Aaaah!” she shrieked joyously, lunging toward Lassiter with both chubby hands outstretched.

“Well, hi, you.” Lassiter took her out of Shawn’s arms.

“Ba ba ba,” Charlotte said, planting a slobbery, openmouthed kiss on Lassiter’s lapel.

One look at Ms. Rodriguez’s face told Lassiter everything he needed to know.

“Want to hold her?” he asked.

“Of course!” Ms. Rodriguez’s grin was as broad as Charlotte’s. She cuddled the baby, cooing at her, and Lassiter looked up at Shawn.

Shawn winked.

Ms. Rodriguez reluctantly handed Charlotte back to Lassiter. “I think that’s it,” she said. “Mr. Lassiter—”

Lassiter froze. “Yes?”

“Enjoy your afternoon,” she said, smiling, and with one last “Bye-bye, sweetie-pie” to Charlotte, she left.

“You’re welcome,” Shawn said to Lassiter, flipping the lock behind her. The happy expression had dropped from his face.

Lassiter looked away and shifted Charlotte on his hip. “Thanks,” he said.

“Not bad for a babysitter, right?” Shawn said sharply.

“Shawn—” Lassiter had a resurgence of that helpless feeling. He was ruining things without even trying.

“I know, I know.” Shawn held up both hands. “It’s complicated.”

Lassiter breathed a sigh of relief. “So you understand,” he said.

“Of course I understand,” Shawn said. He took a step backward. “You didn’t want to make things any more difficult than they already are.”

“Right.” Lassiter paused. The frown on Shawn’s face didn’t exactly jibe with his words.

Shawn’s scowl deepened. “No, I get it. It’s bad enough you’re the single cop dad. You don’t want to add a pint of gay into the mix.”

 _Gay? Who said anything about gay?_ Lassiter cradled Charlotte against his chest and lay a hand lightly over her free ear, as if to keep her from hearing Shawn’s words.

 _Did I let something slip,_ he wondered.  _Had Shawn noticed something?  A look held too long? A hint of longing in a glance?_ Lassiter cursed himself. He knew he shouldn’t have allowed himself those few seconds of oogling when Shawn had helped him assemble the changing table.

“Nobody thinks any of this is…like that.” Lassiter tried to keep his tone light, but to his ears he sounded like every criminal he’d ever caught red handed.

Shawn shrugged. “Exactly. I mean, this isn’t Modern Family. Although if it were I’d be Cameron and you’d be Mitchell. Cause I’m fun and you’re…you.”

“Okay,” Lassiter said. He supposed he deserved that. _Although to be fair_ , he thought, _I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true._

“Besides, you didn’t say anything that isn’t true,” Shawn said, leaving Lassiter feeling like he had just read his mind.  Shawn’s arms were crossed now, and he was so far away from Lassiter that his back was actually against the wall. “So I guess there’s nothing really to apologize for.” Somehow Shawn made the truth sound like something hurtful and vicious.

“I—” Lassiter broke off. “I guess you’re right.”

“Fine,” Shawn said, and he practically spat the word. “Glad you’re happy with how everything went, Lassie.” He opened the door. “See you later.”

***

Shawn sulked for almost two weeks, barely speaking to Lassiter when he got home from work. But as the date of Lassiter’s custody hearing neared, he found the angry knot in his stomach starting to loosen. Lassiter was already so uptight that he wasn’t really paying a whole lot of attention to Shawn’s pouting, anyway, and spending so much time being angry was exhausting.

Shawn sat on one of the long wooden benches in the courthouse hall, and then stood up again almost immediately. The only thing worse than standing outside a courtroom waiting for Lassiter's case to be called was _sitting_ outside the courtroom waiting for the case to be called.

“Listen,” he checked the straps on the baby carrier Lassiter was wearing for the fourth time, “I can come in there with you. If you want.” He knew Lassiter wouldn't ask.

“I'll be fine,” Lassiter assured him, patting Charlotte's back lightly. He bit his lip. “I know judges, Spencer. They're not going to award custody to someone who looks like they're already swamped. I need to look strong. Fatherly.” He lowered his voice. “Besides, the last thing I want is for the court to think this is some kind of My Two Dads situation.”

Shawn laughed, louder than he intended to, and it echoed down the hall. “Yeah. That would be...” He looked at the courtroom door and then back again. “So what are you saying? You think Paul Reiser is tasting the rainbow? Is it the popped collar polo shirts? Because those were everywhere in the late 80s.”

Shawn paced lightly back and forth, and briefly considered getting a coffee from the vending machine. But beverages were right off the menu this morning; the one thing he could imagine that would make his anxiety worse was the urgent need to pee. “But if we did live in the My Two Dads universe,” he added. “Reiser would have no chance. My heart belongs to Richard Moll.”

Lassiter's brows knit. “Isn't he the bailiff from Night Court?”

“Yep. He's 6'8” with a voice like a battleship. He was on their crossover episode where he protected Judge Wilbur from an escaped criminal. What can I say, I like my men tall, protective, and packing heat.”

“I guess I see what you'd find appealing about him,” Lassiter said, nodding.

Clearly, Lassiter too was in a near panicked state if he was willing to pretend discussing the romantic partnership potential of Richard Moll was an acceptable topic of conversation.

Shawn took a deep breath, and asked the question neither of them really wanted to think about but which needed to get answered.

“What if they try to take her away?” Shawn ran a hand over her hair, which sat up like spiky red grass.

“They won't,” Lassiter looked sternly toward the court room doors. “The Conways, her _parents_ ,” a muscle on the side of his face twitched as if saying the word was painful, “haven't got a chance. We can show a history of abuse and neglect, and they have felony convictions.” He cradled Charlotte's head against his chest as if trying to prevent her from hearing his next words. “What we have to worry about is a blood relative. CPS has been looking for someone with a claim who might want to take her on.”

“But a baby's a lot of work, and that family probably wouldn't want the hassle, right? I mean, what are the odds?” Shawn tried to put more confidence into his words than he felt.

“There would be some money involved.” Lassiter raised his head and looked at the courtroom door again, and Shawn saw the strain etched into his face. “They'd be eligible for foster care payments.”

Shawn thought about what he'd seen of the Conways in their case files, and tried to imagine any relative of theirs passing up free money. It was harder than he wanted it to be.

“What do we do if they find a relative who'll take her?” Shawn asked.

Lassiter's mouth formed a thin line. “That is why you should always have a cabin at an undisclosed location in the woods, heavily stocked with rations and firearms.” Lassiter nestled Charlotte a little closer, loosening his grip when she squawked in protest. “Sorry, Char.”

Shawn narrowed his eyes. “And...do you?”

Lassiter smiled, and Shawn could sense something suspiciously like satisfaction in the curl of his lips. “Of course not. That would be conspiracy to commit kidnapping.”

At that moment Shawn suspected that if he were actually psychic he might have gotten an impression of Lassiter driving a car full of dry goods, diapers and formula up to a cabin in the mountains, somewhere off route 154.

“Shawn?” Henry's voice was the only one Shawn knew that could manage to combine a question and an accusation into the same tone. Shawn turned in the direction of the shout and the distinctive stomping feet echoing toward him.

As he watched Henry's approach his mouth went dry. He needed to direct the conversation away from Lassiter and the custody hearing, and onto a less dangerous subject matter. Perhaps politics or religion. Gun control, maybe.

“Dad,” he said, frowning and tilting his head at his father, whose fuchsia Hawaiian print shirt and slight sunburn made him look like a vacationing lobster. “What are you doing here? Oh, wait, I get it. You've become one of those old guys who sits in on court cases all day.”

Henry crossed his arms and fixed Shawn with a cold stare. “I take an interest.” He came closer, his gaze going from Shawn to Charlotte to Lassiter. “Oh dear God,” he said. “Please tell me this isn't what I think it is.”

“I can say with almost one hundred percent certainty that it isn't,” Shawn replied. “Before you make any assumptions, this is not the illegitimate love child of me and Emma Stone, or Gillian Anderson, or Debra Messing, or any other redhead,” Shawn said.

“Gillian Anderson is 47 years old, Shawn,” Henry said. “And she's not even a real redhead.”

“First of all, why do you know that?” Shawn made a face. “Never mind, I don't want to know. Ew. Secondly—”

“Secondly,” Lassiter interrupted, “she's mine. I mean, I'm hoping to make her mine. I'm fostering her.”

“Oh.” Henry visibly relaxed. “Well. Okay. I think you're crazy, but as long as this particular crazy doesn't involve Shawn, that’s fine.”

“Actually, it does involve Shawn,” Lassiter said.

“Shut up, Lassie, shut up,” Shawn said through gritted teeth.

“Oh yeah?” Henry got that look on his face; the Human Lie Detector look, the look that made Shawn feel as though he was under a microscope. “How so?”

“He’s  been babysitting,” Lassiter said. He gave Shawn a hard look. Why hadn't Shawn told Henry about the babysitting job? Henry was always harping on about how Shawn should be more responsible. Lassiter would have thought this was exactly the kind of responsibility of which Henry would approve.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Shawn hissed. To Henry, whose eyebrows had shot up, he said, “Yes, it's true, I'm playing Stacey McGill to Charlotte's Charlotte Johannson.”

“Who's -- “ Henry shook his head. “Shawn, can I talk to you?” He looked at Lassiter. “Alone.”

“I actually need to stop by the chiropractor's office anyway,” Shawn said, glaring at Lassiter. “There's something really _sharp_ and _pointy_ jabbing into my back.” He started for the door.

Henry followed him. “Shawn.”

Shawn kept walking. “What?”

“Shawn, slow down.” Henry quickened his pace and fell into step with Shawn. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Nothing. You heard Lassie. I'm babysitting. It's nothing.” Shawn kept his eyes forward.

“What do you mean, you're babysitting? _You_?”

“Don't sound so shocked,” Shawn said crossly. “I worked at a day care.”

“You worked at a day care for three days, and from what I heard you spent most of that time watching Pinky and the Brain,” Henry pointed out. “You don't know the first thing about babies. If this is some kind of ploy to snuggle up to Lassiter -- “

Shawn tripped.

“Whoa.” Henry's hand shot out and caught Shawn's upper arm before he rolled down the courthouse stairs. “Be careful.”

“I got it.” Shawn put his hand on the railing and kept walking.

Henry followed him. “I wasn't talking about the stairs,” he said.

“What are you talking about?” Shawn jumped down the last three stairs.

“Don't play dumb, Shawn,” Henry said. “I know you have a thing for Lassiter.”

“I do _not_ have a _thing -- “_

“Hey.” Henry grabbed Shawn's arm and spun him around. “Don't give me that bullcrap, son. I know you better than that. You may think that getting involved with this kid is the best way to get Lassiter's attention, but that's a human being back there, not leverage.”

“I know that,” Shawn snapped. He yanked his arm away. “It's just a job, Henry.”

“All I'm saying, Shawn,” Henry said, sighing, watching Shawn stalk away, “is that there are some things that can't be undone.”

***

 


	5. Chapter 5

Shawn's conversation with Henry had been gnawing at him. Okay, sure, he knew when he'd taken this job that it was a pretty good way to get close to Lassiter. And okay, maybe he had taken this job _specifically_ because it was a pretty good way to get close to Lassiter.

But then he'd gotten to know Charlotte—gotten to know this tiny little person who would grow into a big person, with likes and dislikes and feelings and everything. And it still really boggled Shawn that he was _part_ of that, that he got to watch it happening, this transformation from anonymous baby into Charlotte Lassiter (nee Conway), who was a real live actual human being. And somewhere in the middle of that, he sort of forgot that when this whole thing started, Charlottereally had been just a ticket onto the Lassiter train. Because along the way, he started to like her. Maybe, he thought, he even started loved her a little. And his feelings about Lassiter, combined with his feelings about Charlotte, were starting to turn into a whole snowball rolling down the hill situation.  Things were out of control. It was exciting, exhilarating, and more than a little terrifying.

But now this conversation with Henry had left him feeling low, sleazy, and manipulative. It was She's All That, and he was Freddie Prinze, Jr to Lassiter's Rachael Leigh Cook. It was 10 Things I Hate About You, and he was Heath Ledger. Which made Lassiter Julia Stiles, which he thought Lassie actually wouldn't mind that much. Julia Stiles was pretty awesome in Save The Last Dance.

He just hoped that they could maybe skip the big-reveal prom scenes.

When his phone rang, he answered it already feeling irritated. Julia Stiles or not, Lassiter had no right to out him as a babysitter to Henry.

“What the hell, Lassie.”

“She's mine,” Lassiter said.

Shawn sighed and rolled his eyes. “Don't tell me you're going to start in too now. Look, I am not trying to steal your kid away or replace you in her tiny baby affections, or whatever else it is you—”

“No,” Lassiter's voice cut in. “she's _mine_ ,” he repeated, his voice thick with emotion. “They awarded me custody. She's mine.”

“Congratulations! You’re a Daddy,” Shawn said. “This deserves a celebration. I'm coming over.”

***

Lassiter didn’t expect a lot of things, but what he expected least of all when he opened the door was an armful of Shawn Spencer. His embrace was sudden, surprisingly strong, and it left him feeling as if all the blood in his body was quickly draining into his shorts.

“I brought you some vitamin B12,” Shawn said, his voice muffled against Lassiter’s shoulder as he maintained the hug for approximately seven thousand minutes longer than what was socially acceptable. “I heard it’s good for breastfeeding.”

Lassiter heard something rattling and turned toward the sound. Suddenly his face was mere inches away from Shawn’s who was looking up at him with those shiny green eyes and that perpetually half-open mouth of his. It was too much temptation for one man to bear. For a split second he could imagine himself kissing him, despite knowing it would be like putting a match to gunpowder.

Lassiter brought his hands up to Shawn’s chest and shoved him back. “Get off.”

“Love to. “ Shawn pushed past Lassiter and sashayed into the living room, brandishing the vitamin bottle in one hand and a much larger bottle of Malibu rum in the other. “Maybe after a few celebratory shots of this, if you’re feeling feisty.” He waggled his eyebrows.

Something in Lassiter snapped.

Maybe it was the stress of the day, maybe it was Shawn’s inappropriately long embrace and damnably kissable mouth, maybe it was the anxious tugging sensation in his stomach that seemed to ratchet up in intensity every time Shawn made a suggestive remark. Maybe it was everything; maybe it was nothing.

Before he knew what he was doing, Lassiter had stepped forward and swatted the bottle of Malibu out of Shawn’s hand. It hit the floor, and being plastic, bounced but didn’t break.

Shawn stared at him, motionless. “Lassie, what—”

He didn’t say anything else.

He didn’t say anything else, because at that moment Lassiter grabbed Shawn’s head with both hands and planted a hard, angry kiss on his open mouth.

The second Lassiter’s lips hit Shawn’s, he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. He’d wanted to shut Shawn up. He’d wanted to call the bluff, to prove that there was nothing substantial behind the bluster and shine.

And most of all, he’d wanted to prove to himself that he didn’t want Shawn.

But Shawn, damn him, recovered from the shock faster than expected, and abruptly he realized that Shawn was kissing him back. Lassiter’s heart beat so fiercely that it felt like fireworks were going off in his chest. He’d had this feeling before. It was exciting, and amazing, and left him light-headed and giddy. But it also led directly to heartbreak, drinking Jack Daniels in the dark and to feeling so crushed that he’d locked his Glock in his home safe, so it wasn’t within arm’s reach. He couldn’t go through that again.  Not for Shawn. Not for anybody.

He stumbled backwards. Saw the startled confusion in Shawn’s hazel eyes. And something else – something that looked suspiciously like desire.

“Shut up,” Lassiter snapped, when Shawn opened his mouth to speak.

“But Lassie –”

“I said shut _up_!” Lassiter grabbed Shawn roughly by the arm and spun him around, then shoved him toward the door.

“Lassie, it’s o—” the sentence was cut off as Shawn collided firmly with the wall.  Lassiter pinned him there while he pulled open the door then yanked him back, ready to propel him outside. 

“Lassie, can I just–” Shawn was backpedaling, trying to resist, and the motion of his feet and his upper body knocked him off balance. He pitched forward. Lassiter tried to catch him, but he landed hard on all fours.

“Ow,” he yelped, rolling onto his back, both hands clutching his left knee.

“I’m so sorry,” Lassiter stammered, his anger dissipating at once. He dropped to the floor beside Shawn. “Are you okay?”

“Do I look okay?” Shawn said sharply. His eyes were bright with tears of pain. “I feel like I just got Nancy Kerriganed.” He sat up, wincing, and extended his leg experimentally. “Damn it. Ow. I can’t believe you kissed me and then tried to kill me.”

Lassiter stood. “I didn’t try to kill you,” he said lamely.

Shawn pointed up at him accusingly. “So you admit you kissed me.”

“I–” Lassiter cleared his throat and turned away. “Spencer, I think you should go.”

“And now you’re throwing me out?” Shawn said disbelievingly, from behind Lassiter. “Lassie, this is low even for you.”

Lassiter didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He was overwhelmed, suddenly, by a litany of _what have I done_ s.

“Lassie. Buddy.” Shawn stood up and limped toward him, then clapped a hand on Lassiter’s shoulder. Lassiter shoved it away.

“I won’t pretend I’m not excited that you’re finally responding to my increasingly obvious overtures,” Shawn said, replacing his hand on Lassiter’s shoulder without missing a beat, “but I’m a little bit confused by your approach.”

“It was a mistake,” Lassiter said. He pushed Shawn’s hand away again. “And I really think you should go.”

“But Lassie.” Shawn’s voice took on a wheedling tone. “We’ve only just begun.”

Lassiter tensed. “Out,” he said sharply.

“It’s going to be weird at work if we don’t talk it out,” Shawn said, stooping to retrieve his keys.

“Good point,” Lassiter growled. “You’re fired.”

Shawn froze. “What?”

“You heard me,” Lassiter said. He looked at the wall behind Shawn’s shoulder, resolutely ignoring the shock and hurt on Shawn’s face. “I said you’re fired.”

All cajole and whimsy had vanished from Shawn’s voice. “You can’t do that,” he said.

“Like hell I can’t,” Lassiter said. “Now go. Before I decide you’re trespassing.”

“ _Trespassing?_ ” Shawn said disbelievingly. “You gave me a key!”

“Thanks for reminding me,” Lassiter said coldly, even as his inner voice shouted _what are you doing?_ “I’ll have that back too.”

“What is going _on_ here?” Shawn sputtered. “What kind of weird heterosexual freak-out are you having? This is great. This is the part where I tell you I like you and you tell me you like me and—”

“But I _don’t_ like you, Spencer,” Lassiter said, and the lie burned in his chest even as he said it.

Shawn’s lips thinned. “Fine,” he said shortly. “You don’t like me, fine. But come on, Lassie. I’m good with Charlotte. You know I am. Please don’t fire me.” The plea came back into his tone. “Come on. _Please_.”

Lassiter turned his back.

“Just get out,” he said. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

*****

As it turned out, they didn’t talk about it.

Shawn showed up the next day, let himself in, and began preparing Charlotte’s food for the day without a word to Lassiter. Tightening a Windsor knot in his bedroom, Lassiter could hear Shawn humming in the kitchen. He waited a minute too long and decided he couldn’t throw Shawn out. And Shawn, for his part, barely cast a glance in Lassiter’s direction when Lassiter left for work.

It went on like that for a week: high-intensity ignoring from both directions. Then, on Friday evening, Charlotte changed everything.

Lassiter lowered his bags of groceries to the floor and frowned over the litter of newsprint, construction paper and storybooks scattered across his carpet.

 _I should have known_ , he chided himself. _An hour and a half at the grocery store and Shawn was wrecking the place._

“What's all this mess?” He put his hands on his hips and stared down the culprits. Charlotte, seeing him, let out a belly laugh. She raised her hands, which were covered in blue paint, and said “Ah!”

“It's all her fault,” Shawn insisted, pointing a blue finger at the messy baby sitting on the floor in front of him. “She blinded me with the arts and humanities.”

“What the hell—” He looked at Charlotte and quickly backtracked, “Heck—I meant heck—have you got all over your hands?”

“Relax,” Shawn said. “It's not like we're hitmen for the Anglo-Sino Alliance pursuing you across the dark recesses of space. It's just a little waterpaint.”

“It's a hideous mess.” Although Lassiter noted that Shawn had at least thought to protect the carpet with newspaper first.

And then he realized what he was looking at.

“She's—” he said. He was barely able to form the next words. “Sitting up.”

“You were in and out so fast after work, I was wondering when you were going to notice.” Shawn was grinning at him. “We had physical therapy this morning. First time sitting. Gold star, the therapist said.”

Lassiter dropped to the floor beside Charlotte.

“You're sitting up,” he said to her, wonderingly.

“Ah,” she said again, happily, and planted her hand flat on his nose.

He picked up Charlotte, careful to hold her so she couldn't get paint all over his suit. Cleared his throat to regain his composure. “Clean this all up before you go. The vacuum is in the hall closet.”

Shawn rose from the debris, a shower of tiny paper shards falling from his lap.

“We made this for you,” he said sheepishly, holding out a cardboard square. “Well. Charlotte did. I just distracted her with it so she wouldn't notice she was sitting alone.”

Shifting Charlotte to one hip, Lassiter took the cardboard. It was smeared at random with paint, and in the middle were two blue handprints.

It was the most perfect piece of art Lassiter had ever seen.

When Lassiter cleared his throat again, Shawn hastily turned away. “I’ll just…wash up…and get the vacuum,” he said, brushing his hands over his thighs and smearing paint all over his jeans. He started for the kitchen.

“Shawn, hold on,” Lassiter said.

Shawn stopped. Turned.

“I…” Lassiter stopped. He looked down at Charlotte, who was cheerfully drooling on his lapel and had already decorated his shirtfront with paint.

He looked back at Shawn, who was watching him expectantly. He tried again. “Maybe…I was a little harsh last weekend,” he said lamely.

Shawn snorted. “ _Maybe._ ”

“Okay,” Lassiter amended, “definitely.”

“Apology accepted,” Shawn said, nodding.

“I didn’t apologize,” Lassiter pointed out.

Shawn folded his arms, his eyes narrowing. “So you’re not sorry.”

Charlotte patted Lassiter’s shoulder. “Ba ba ba ba,” she admonished.

Lassiter hesitated. “I’m sorry for what I said.”

Shawn’s expression didn’t waver. “And?” he said.

Lassiter knew where this was going. He met Shawn’s eyes defiantly.

“I’m not sorry for what I did,” he said at last.

All the tension seemed to dissolve from Shawn’s body. His shoulders sagged, and he leaned heavily against the wall. Despite the sudden deflation, he was smiling: brightly, brilliantly.

“Good news for me,” he said.

“Yeah?” Lassiter winced as Charlotte found his ear and clamped her hand around it. Sometimes, he thought, love was worth the pain.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

The wedding was beautiful, elegant and tasteful. Lassiter wouldn’t have expected anything less from O’Hara and Guster. As he stood by the fountain in the immaculately groomed garden of the Simpson House Inn, sipping champagne and watching them greet their guests, he wondered if he would ever consider tying the knot again. It had been a long time since he’d been the wide-eyed romantic that had fallen for Victoria Parker. Even dating was more complicated, now there was more than just his own needs to consider. And then there was Shawn. That one kiss had added a whole other layer of weird. It was times like this that he wished relationships were more like the Detective’s exam.  You did your best, and you got a score that told you exactly where you stood. As far as he was concerned that was preferable to wondering whether or not you were dating, and if one of the best kisses of your life would ever happen a second time.

“Where’s Charlotte?”

“What?” He turned to see Chief Vick, walking toward him unsteadily as her slight heels dug into the soft earth beneath the grass. “Oh. She’s with my mother.” He supposed he might as well get used to people being disappointed whenever he didn’t have an adorable baby with him. He could hardly blame them. “No doubt she’s picking up a dozen bad habits and emotional scars.” Shawn had assured him that this wasn’t the case, and that Charlotte’s visits to her new grandmother were, in fact, mutually enjoyable for both parties. Somehow Carlton found that difficult to believe.

“Grandparents are supposed to spoil their grandkids, Carlton,” Vick assured him.

 _That may be so_ , he thought, but since Charlotte had come along he’d also been forced to hear his mother recollect incidents from his own infancy that were, in his view, best forgotten. Too many of them featured him urinating.

Vick stared at him over her champagne glass as she sipped it. “What are your plans now that you’ve got custody nailed down?”

“Plans?”

“Well I assume you’ll take paternity leave,” she began.  “Plus, you have that year of vacation saved up.”

Lassiter looked at her as if she had just suggested that he consider going vegan. “What, I should take two years off and let crime just pile up in the city where Charlotte will someday walk to school? I don't think so.”

Besides, he reasoned, he might need that vacation time for when Charlotte started dating. He certainly couldn’t tail her boyfriends on SBPD time.

Chief Vick sighed and nodded, as if their conversation had gone just as she expected it might. “It was just a suggestion.” She slapped him conciliatorily on the arm. “I think I’ll go congratulate the happy couple.”

Lassiter watched Vick manoeuver her way across the lawn to where Gus and Juliet were greeting guests. He didn’t hear Shawn’s approach and jumped slightly when he spoke.

“Lassie.”

Shawn was standing so close to Lassiter's elbow that he almost knocked his glass of champagne out of his hand. Lassiter lifted his glass up, out of range, and stepped back.

“Shawn.” Lassiter have him a nod. “The uh, wedding was nice.  Don’t you think?”

“Huh?  Oh.  Yeah. Weddings are great. Unless they’re attacked by the Deadly Viper Assassination Squad.” He laughed nervously. 

There were times, Lassiter acknowledged, when he wished he possessed the mind-reading powers that Shawn sometimes claimed. If he did, he’d certainly have been tempted to use them now, as they made awkward small-talk about the ceremony.

Sometimes it was almost as if the kiss hadn’t happened, and they’d settled back into a comfortable routine. Lassiter hated the thought of ruining everything by trying to re-hash his one moment of weakness and insanity. And then there were times, usually just as he was going to bed alone, when he felt like he’d pressed the pause button on his love life just as things had started to get interesting. Shawn had kissed him back, and that had to mean something.  He just wasn’t sure what he wanted it to mean, or what Shawn wanted it to mean.

As he listened to Shawn joke about being the Dermot Mulroney to his Debra Messing, he was uncomfortably uncertain whether Shawn saw himself as his date. And he couldn’t very well ask.  If marriage had taught him anything, it was that talking about his feelings was not his strong suit.

“Um.” Shawn shifted from foot to foot nervously. “Um. Can I talk to you?”

 _Uh-oh,_ Lassiter thought. In his experience, that question had never led anywhere good.

“We _are_ talking,” He pointed out.

“I mean,” Shawn said, looking from one corner of the reception hall to the other, “not here. This is kind of a Nic Cage and Sean Connery in the sewer of Alcatraz conversation rather than a Mel Gibson with blue face paint yelling at a crowd of men in skirts kind of conversation, you know?”

Lassiter looked at him blankly.

“In private,” Shawn explained.

“Right.” Lassiter drained his champagne and put the fluted glass down on a candlelit table. “Fine.” It looked like they were going to finally address that kiss. But what could he say?  It was amazing?  It was incredible?  Let’s never do it again, for both our sakes?

Shawn led Lassiter inside the Inn, across a gleaming hardwood floor, down a narrow hallway and to a drab and grimy utility closet that smelled of orange-scented floor cleaner.

“Spencer,” Lassiter said slowly, “did you...set up seating in a utility closet?”

“I wanted to make it comfortable,” Shawn said defensively. He pointed to the overturned five-gallon buckets he'd arranged in the middle of the tiny room. “The little bucket is an end table.” When Lassiter didn't move, he sat down.

“What I wanted to tell you,” Shawn said, looking first up at Lassiter, then down at his hands, “is that I am really sorry.”

 _Shawn_ was sorry? “I don’t think–” Lassiter began, and stopped. He looked away. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about.” He looked at Shawn and his eyes narrowed.  “Unless you peanut-buttered my phone again.”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Shawn interrupted, waving his hands in front of him. “It's just...”

He paused for so long that Lassiter started to feel antsy. “What?”

“When I offered to help you out with Charlotte,” Shawn said. “I...I mean, I really had worked with babies before. I really do like them. I love Charlotte,” he added, looking up imploringly at Lassiter.

“Spencer.” Lassiter tried to keep his voice as even and calm as possible. “I really don't understand what you're trying to tell me.”

“When I offered to help,” Shawn continued, knotting his fingers together, “I may have had, um, a teeny tiny little ulterior motive.”

“Uh huh.” Lassiter schooled himself not to react. “And what motive was that?”

Shawn looked up at him. “I was using her as an excuse to get to you,” he said flatly.

Lassiter stared. Shawn had certainly been getting to him, there was no doubt about that. No, Lassiter thought, Shawn had been getting to him on too many levels for too long now.  The attraction issue aside, he’d come to rely on Shawn and to see him as more than an employee. For a few moments he’d even entertained thoughts that they had…something. But now it seemed as if all those moments of intimacy had been part of some larger scheme. He should have known. 

“I mean,” Shawn continued, “it wasn't my only option. I had some other plans, you know, most of which involved me getting locked out of my apartment. But then Charlotte showed up and it just seemed like—” He stopped. Stared up pleadingly at Lassiter. “I thought that taking care of her would be a way to be close to you. Because I like you. To paraphrase Sally Fields, I really, really like you.”

“I—” Lassiter cleared his throat. He was having trouble processing any of Shawn's rambling explanation. “I'm not really sure what to say, Spencer.”

“I'm really sorry,” Shawn said, staring at the floor. “The thing is, after the whole thing started, after I really got to know her, I just…” He looked up with a dreamy smile on his face. “She's an awesome kid, Lassie.”

Finally, something he could comprehend. “I know.”

“And I just kind of forgot, I guess, that that was what I wanted, at first, but then we really _were_ together a lot, and doing things with Charlotte, and there was pasta primavera and that Ed Sullivan wine, and...” He paused. “And then I just...I realized that I don't want to get with you, Lassie.”

“You don't?” Lassiter said. He felt dizzy and bewildered—was Shawn saying that all that flirting, all those signals were just...what? Lies? Lassiter's misinterpretation?  He couldn’t believe that.  The kiss had been real. He knew that in his gut.

“No.” Shawn's voice gathered conviction. “I wanted to get with you at first, Lassie. But now—” he reached up and took Lassiter's hands—”now I want to _be_ with you.”

Lassiter was speechless. This was beyond what he’d expected.  At most, he thought Shawn might proposition him. He’d imagined it a dozen times—Shawn, as usual, injecting just enough levity into the offer that he could pretend he hadn’t been serious if things went bad.  What he hadn’t expected was such raw vulnerability. It brought out all his protective instincts.

He pulled Shawn up from the bucket chair, cupped his face in his hands and leaned in.  Pushing all his doubts and fears to the back of his mind he lost himself in the feel of Shawn’s lips against his own, and then as their kiss deepened everything seemed to melt away except the feeling of Shawn’s body pressed desperately against his own.  It seemed like ages before he pulled back and gasped a breath.

“My mother has Charlotte for another two hours,” he whispered, trailing kisses along Shawn’s neck.

“That is the sexiest thing I have ever heard you say,” Shawn teased.

“I meant,” Lassiter smirked, “we could go back to my place.  Alone.  Together.” He leaned back and looked searching into Shawn’s eyes.  “If you wanted.”

“If I wanted?” Shawn shook his head, incredulously.  “I want that like I want another season of Pushing Daisies.  Which is yes,” he added when he sensed Lassiter’s confusion. “Even if it did make me want to eat pie every week.”

“Great!” Lassiter looked at their surroundings and sniffed reproachfully at the heavy citrus smell.  “Then let’s get the hell out of this closet.”

Shawn smiled. “Literally, or metaphorically?”

Lassiter rolled his eyes.  “One hurdle at a time, Spencer. One hurdle at a time.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
